The people Marcel loves are people in motion. Like Albertine - always speeding off somewhere on a bike, on a train, in a car, on a horse or flown out of the window; like Marcel's mother, perpetually on her way up the stairs to kiss him good night; like his grand mother, striding up and … Continue reading On the second paradox of Zeno
Writing
She knows
She knows how much I value her, her role, her character, and she plays hard to get. "You have to show me, not good enough just to say: 'she possessed him, he was what her will dictated.' You have to write it, convincingly, a good two thousand words, at least, showing how much this … Continue reading She knows
Calling #writephoto #Writerswednesday
Thursday photo prompt Through the snow, through the pixelated mist of our lives, I see him. Writing about him - only the antlers prevent me to say "her" - is another story: precisely. Inspiration is like this vision, looking back at us, shrouded in doubt, shying away from the obvious, a myth. The stag … Continue reading Calling #writephoto #Writerswednesday
Nothing like a five-year old manuscript
I am working on this "draft" (of drafts) again. It says I last worked on it in 2016, the first words go back to 2011, which I find both curious, and almost desperate. The plot is vague, the characters unbelievable, well, not so deep anyway. Yet I find this important, even vital: retracing these … Continue reading Nothing like a five-year old manuscript
Shitty first drafts
“Very few writers really know what they are doing until they’ve done it.”
Shitty first drafts. All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts. People tend to look at successful writers who are getting their books published and maybe even doing well financially and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated. I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits…
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Of a broken box and a small town
In the past two weeks my writing output (I did not want to say "literary") was badly affected by the collapse of my old Mac, bought in 2009. This was the tool for my writing before and after a first (disk) failure, back in 2018. I was then lucky enough to find a local expert … Continue reading Of a broken box and a small town
Turning the page… #amwriting
It has not been a productive year for writing, so far. In the depth of last winter there were good intentions, even some actual work (!) then it all melted away, washed out by the rain. A few sunny days were not enough to rekindle the fire, there was too much distraction. In part, … Continue reading Turning the page… #amwriting
Is it Autumn?
The enemy breached the walls: in a few hours the virus spread, and a deep change set in. I can't breath, nor think clearly. I know today is first day of Autumn, the trees colours have been changing for a while. Have we had a real summer? This is the time to go back … Continue reading Is it Autumn?
Roots #TheDailyPost #WritersWednesday
The prompt, Wednesday April 26 She belongs to this city, even if she would deny it. Her accent, I know, is - ever so lightly - from somewhere else, further East, for such is History. Once upon a time, those lands belonged here. Her roots are here. And I, wandering those streets, drinking quietly … Continue reading Roots #TheDailyPost #WritersWednesday
Original tales
“If such things creep quietly and unnoticed into our work, then perhaps that is not plagiarism but homage.”
I was writing late last night and, on re-reading what I had written became aware of an odd juxtaposition of certain words. They took me straight back to a book where a particular passage had left its mark. There was no thought of copying; no intent to re-use or appropriate the work of another writer, and what I had noticed was no more than three words long. Perhaps it was the context rather than the phrase that had been the reminder. Even so, it got me thinking.
With all the words that have been written by the human hand over the millennia, are there any that have been left unsaid? Can we ever write without plagiarising, consciously or unconsciously the work of another who has gone before? I remember reading once that Shakespeare had summarised every human emotion in his work. That is open to debate, of course, and the…
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